


Forward, One Step at a Time

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:59:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last of the Amis left standing, Enjolras and Grantaire prepare to rejoin the fight for freedom, extending an invitation to Marius to stand with them. One-shot, same universe as "To Follow".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forward, One Step at a Time

**Author's Note:**

> So, this isn't the continuation of "To Follow" that I'd been intending to write, but it's been bothering at me for weeks. Marius insisted he have his say and his moments of grief. The basic AU premise for this series of one-shots is all the Amis but Enjolras and Grantaire fell at the barricades. This has a very different tone from "To Follow"—it's much less spiritual, much more real-world. Reading "To Follow" isn't really necessary but will probably help.

 

_Forward, One Step at a Time_

Enjolras comes to see Marius six months after the barricades.

It's a week after Marius' doctor declared that he could have callers again—could return to a normal life, or whatever semblance of normalcy he is supposed to create after all that's happened. The declaration has meant that Cosette and her father have been frequent visitors, a fact he's been infinitely grateful for.

His new life is going to be crafted on Cosette's love, after all. The more he sees of her, the less he thinks of phantom screams or phantom pains, things that he needs to put behind him if he wants to keep his sanity.

When he's told he has a visitor he thinks that it's Cosette come to see him again. If he'd waited, if he'd asked any questions of the servant who tells him, if he'd paid attention to the way the man hesitates when saying the word _visitor_ , he might have known what to expect. As soon as the possibility of Cosette's presence enters his mind, though, he's off for the door, all other cares stripped from his thoughts.

Enjolras still has his hat and coat on, standing in the front hall just inside the door. He holds a cane in his left hand, and he leans heavily on it when he turns from the painting that he's studying to appraise Marius.

Marius finds himself staring. He can't help it. Half-remembered images from the barricade swamp his mind. Enjolras speaking. Men screaming. Men dying.

_Courfeyrac_ dying, falling as he tried to guard others in the final rout, and Marius draws a shuddering breath and turns away.

"Marius." Enjolras' voice is just as deep and sonorous as it was on the battlefield—as it was _before_ the battle, and as it was in the quiet times between skirmishes, when his words helped bolster morale.

It shouldn't be. Somehow it seems to Marius that Enjolras should have changed—that he should have been clearly marked by the barricades.

Which is a cruel thing to think, because it's clear from even a cursory glance that Enjolras _was_ scarred by the barricades. He doesn't carry the cane for appearance's sake—he leans on it with each shift of his weight, his right leg clearly lacking in strength.

"Enjolras." Marius forces a smile, not sure what else to do. "I'm glad to see you alive."

"The same." Enjolras removes his hat, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. A thick scar, the size of Marius' smallest finger in diameter and a deep red against the pale tone of Enjolras' skin and hair, starts three centimeters below Enjolras' hairline and cuts right to left across his forehead before disappearing into his blond hair. "I'm glad that you survived, and I'm glad that you're willing to talk with me."

Marius nods, slowly, forcing his eyes back down from Enjolras' forehead to meet his blue eyes. "How could I not meet with you?"

He realizes the words are true once they're said. He had seen many of the others fall before unconsciousness stole him away from the barricades, though those memories are jumbled and confused now. Once he was properly conscious, his grandfather had brought him lists of the dead and incarcerated, the old man being kind enough to cut off the parts of the articles that declared the fallen traitors who deserved worse than death. Marius had realized, vaguely, that Enjolras and Grantaire's names were missing from the lists. In the midst of grief and fever, though, it had been hard for his mind to get much further.

Enjolras gives a small shrug, all hint of a smile fading from his features. "It would be a simple matter for you to turn me away—or even to try to turn me in, if you wished it."

"If I were to turn you in, I might as well turn myself in, too." Marius forces his left hand back to his side, away from the thickest scars that now mar his body. "Besides which… you were Courfeyrac's friend. A man he deeply respected."

It hurts, still, to say Courfeyrac's name. Marius wonders, vaguely, if it will always hurt, or if eventually this grief, too, will fade.

Silence stretches between them, the silence of shared pain, and Enjolras bows his head for a few seconds. Just for a few, though, and when he raises them his deep blue eyes are just as piercing and determined as ever. "Is it safe to speak here?"

After an uncertain moment Marius nods. "No one here would betray you. Betraying you would be betraying me, and my grandfather wouldn't stand for it."

"We're starting again." Enjolras continues to stare at him, _into_ him, and Marius couldn't look away even if he wanted to. "I wanted to know if you were interested in joining us."

"I…" Marius swallows, hard, and wrenches his gaze away from the revolutionary's. "Enjolras, I…"

"I know you didn't always agree with our politics." Another slight smile, sadder this time, touches Enjolras' mouth. "But since you stood beside us on the barricade, I thought… I thought I would at least extend the invitation."

"When you say starting again…" Marius swallows, hard, trying to get his voice not to sound quite so breathless and panicked. "What… what do you mean?"

"I suppose I should say continuing. I've been writing on my own… well, with Grantaire's help. But we've also started to gather another group of like-minded individuals, and we're going to do what Les Amis did. Distribute pamphlets, talk with others… collect weapons… and, most probably, fight again."

"Just like that." Marius' voice is barely a whisper. His left hand is pressed against his scarred shoulder, his eyes fixed on the dark scar on Enjolras' head. "Not even a year out, and you're already planning something like that."

"Injustice isn't resting." Enjolras' voice is almost gentle. "We can't, either."

"Enjolras, I…" Marius shakes his head, taking a step back from the blond man without conscious thought. "I'm supposed to be _married_ , Enjolras. I've found the most amazing woman, she's the only reason I'm still _here_ , and I'm supposed to be _married_. I can't… it's not even the politics. My grandfather spouts Republican ideals now! Not well, but if it was important enough for me to almost die then… but I can't go through something like this again. I can't face something like the barricades again."

Enjolras simply studies him, for seconds that seem like eternity, and then gives the barest nod. "All right."

Placing his hat back on his head, leaning more heavily on his cane, Enjolras turns to the door.

"Just… all right?" Marius closes the distance between himself and the blond, his hand rising to rest tentatively on Enjolras' shoulder. "Just like that, all right, no… aren't you going to argue with me? Aren't you going to try to persuade me?"

"Do you want to be persuaded?" Enjolras turns back to him and raises both eyebrows, his voice still gentle.

"No." Marius finds himself speaking in a whisper again, his hand falling away from Enjolras' shoulder. "I'm fairly certain that there's nothing you could say that would convince me to go through this again."

"You went through it once." That same sad, sad smile graces Enjolras' face again as he studies Marius, the scar on his forehead mainly hidden by his hat. "You stood bravely with us—you saved Courfeyrac, saved the barricade during that first attack. I was glad to stand and fight with you, Marius, and if you cannot fight again… I will ask no more from any man than he is able to give."

"I'm not saying that I won't help you at all. Perhaps, if you need money or… or something like that, something that wouldn't be… dangerous…" He can't meet those eyes. He can't look at that smile, so knowing and kind and sad, and his eyes drop down Enjolras' body until they catch on the cane again. It's familiar, achingly familiar, and he studies it for long seconds until foggy memory becomes grim certainty. "Is that… the cane, is it…"

"Joly's. Yes." Enjolras' hand tightens around the head, and he moves the item closer to his body, just incrementally, an unconscious movement that Marius recognizes.

As though Marius would try to take the item from him.

As though Marius would try to censor his grief.

Marius' eyes rise again, to the hat that he hadn't given a good examination before. It's elegant, sleek, slightly out of fashion now, and that's why he hadn't recognized it immediately. It doesn't stand out from the rest of Enjolras' simple wardrobe, but it doesn't belong with it, either, and Marius knows where it came from.

"And yes." Enjolras meets his gaze, still holding the cane protectively, the smile gone from his face. "The hat was Courfeyrac's. Grantaire… Grantaire brought them to me, as well as a few other mementos."

"Enjolras…" Marius finds his eyes running over the rest of Enjolras' clothing. His coat, his watch, his handkerchief, do any of them—

"Don't look at me like that." The slight smile returns to Enjolras' face, this time with a self-deprecating edge. "I'm not a walking mausoleum. The rest of what I'm wearing belongs to me."

"It's not… I mean, I don't… I wouldn't try to tell you…" Marius forces himself to stop, to sort his words into a proper order before allowing them to escape despite the painful lump in his throat and the emotions choking his heart. "You miss them."

"Yes." Enjolras doesn't drop his eyes, no apology in his voice or his expression. "Every day, yes."

"And yet you're still… how?" Marius can feel his shoulders slumping as grief and guilt rise once more.

"Because I miss them. Because it needs to be done." Enjolras reaches out and rests his hand tentatively on Marius' shoulder. "Because it is my way of honoring them. Because it is my way of remembering them. But it doesn't have to be yours."

"Do you think Courfeyrac would be disappointed in me?" Marius raises his right hand despite the phantom pain that twinges through his shoulder and rubs at the back of his neck. "For not following you, for not joining the fight again… do you think he would hate me? Do _you_ hate me for it?"

"I think…" Enjolras pauses, blue eyes unfocused, looking at something that Marius can't see. When he smiles this time, there's less sadness and more joy in the expression. "I think that Courfeyrac would love you still, as he loved all of us, whole-heartedly and unashamedly. And while I will be grateful for any assistance you render us in the future, I will not press you for more than you can give. Courfeyrac wouldn't want that."

"I will speak with others. I will give you funds, if I can. I will ensure that the people in my household know the definition of freedom and the price it can cost… I will teach my children what Courfeyrac tried so hard to teach me. I will… I will do all that I can do, so long as it doesn't endanger Cosette." Cosette is the one thing he is certain about, still. He loves her; he will protect her; he can do nothing to endanger her, not even with this man here, studying him so intently. "It's all I can offer you right now, Enjolras."

"Then I accept it, with gladness and gratitude." Enjolras takes his hand, his grip firm and warm, and smiles just once more.

It's a brighter smile, a more open smile, and it tears at Marius' heart.

Enjolras is a walking mausoleum, but it has nothing to do with the mementos that he carries. He carries the ghosts of the rest of the Amis in his smile, in his determined limp, in his calm blue eyes as he contemplates returning to the hell from which they were lucky to emerge with their lives.

"Will you come to my wedding?" The question is asked before Marius knows he intends to speak.

Enjolras hesitates just a moment. "You… want me to be there?"

"Yes." Marius' voice is firm as conviction fills him. Courfeyrac was his closest friend, and the rest of the Amis would have been invited to the wedding as well. "I want you to be there. You and Grantaire. If you don't mind."

"Send us the invitation. We… will try to attend." Inclining his head, Enjolras holds out his hand once more.

Clasping Enjolras' hand within his, Marius blinks away tears. "I will be very glad to see you there."

"I truly am quite glad that you survived, Marius." Enjolras' voice is a quiet whisper. "And I'm sure Courfeyrac would be, as well."

It's the last thing Enjolras says before disentangling his fingers from Marius' and letting himself out of the house.

After a moment of staring at the closed door Marius reaches up to feel tears on his face.

He doesn't know how long he cries, a mixture of quiet tears and wrenching sobs that make the scars on his head and chest hurt, and in the end it doesn't really matter. He cries for those who died, for the friends he stood beside, for the glory and the horror that he remembers in half-coherent flashes. He cries for the frustration of the situation, that so many good men have died, have had their names desecrated in the press, and changed nothing. He cries for the future, for those who will once again stand on barricades.

Eventually, though, his tears are spent, and he straightens into his grandfather's gentle, silent embrace.

He is alive.

Enjolras is alive.

So long as they live, Courfeyrac and the rest won't be forgotten, and their deaths won't have been in vain.

XXX

Grantaire falls into step with Enjolras on the street outside Marius' estate. They walk in silence for several minutes, Grantaire matching his pace to Enjolras' slower, limping gait. If Combeferre were here, he would probably allow the silence to continue. He would probably know what passed between Enjolras and Marius already.

But Combeferre isn't here, and Grantaire can't follow Enjolras to wherever he goes when his blue eyes stare so intently at nothing. "What did he say?"

"Hm?" Enjolras turns his head to meet Grantaire's eyes. "He won't be joining us. He may be a contact we can use later, but… for now, we'll leave him to his life."

"I told you he wouldn't…" Grantaire trails off, swallowing the words before the thought can be finished. He had expected Marius to turn them down, but there's no need to reiterate that fact. "Well, then. It's been good exercise, at least."

"It has been. The more I walk, the easier it gets. Though I'm beginning to fear I'll never be able to walk any significant distance without this." Enjolras nods down at the cane, though his face is serene.

He's accepted his scars, his limp, his loss, all with a grace and equanimity that Grantaire doesn't understand.

There have been difficult times, of course. Grantaire will never forget when he came home to find Enjolras curled double in his desk chair, his hands pressed hard to his eyes, paper and ink scattered across the floor around him.

When the headache had eased to the point that Enjolras could speak coherently again, though, he had merely apologized, assisted Grantaire in cleaning up the floor despite Grantaire's protests, and suggested that it may be wise for Grantaire to assist him with reading and writing until his eyes recovered more.

There have been other incidents, other times when Grantaire was certain Enjolras would break, would give up… but he never did. No matter how difficult the obstacles, personal or political, he never seemed to even consider stopping as an option.

And because Enjolras needed him, because Enjolras still required care and help, Grantaire didn't stop, either. No matter how tempting it would be to crawl into a bottle and never crawl out, to drown himself in drink so that he never has to hear the sounds of battle and death in his dreams again, never has to think of all the people he's never going to see again, he couldn't do it.

He could never place his own life, his own misery, above what Enjolras needs.

But Enjolras is better, now. He's attending classes again. He's able to traverse the city again, provided he gives himself extra time. He's able to read again, so long as he does it in short stints. He's able to write without assistance again, though his script is different than it used to be, larger, more angular.

He's starting to gather people around him again, people who look far too young to Grantaire.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras has continued to watch him, expression calm. "What are you thinking?"

He's thinking that the next few weeks are going to be hard. He's thinking that he's going to have to keep doing this, to keep asking himself the same question, and to hope that he keeps getting the same answer: Enjolras is worth the pain and fear. "I was thinking that they look really, really young."

Enjolras doesn't ask him who he's referring to. He's grateful for that. "They're the same age that Combeferre and I were when we started. Older than Bahorel was when he started. And they know what they're getting into."

Yes. That much is true, at least. It's impossible to look at Enjolras, to look at their world, and not know what they're getting into.

"They aren't the Amis." Grantaire doesn't need to say this. He shouldn't say this, probably, but it burns inside him. "Anton isn't Courfeyrac. Laurent isn't Combeferre."

"I know." Enjolras turns so that he's facing forward again, though his pace doesn't change and his head doesn't lower at all. "They were singular. I wouldn't dream of trying to replace them. But I need people like the Amis, people with intelligence, passion, and conviction." Enjolras' voice falls to a faint whisper, barely audible. "I need people with me so that the world doesn't burn too much. So that I don't burn too much."

Grantaire doesn't ask what Enjolras' seeing as he stares straight ahead, an expression on his face that manages to combine ecstasy and agony into something almost holy. It's an expression Enjolras' worn off and on since he finally woke from his fever-dreams, and it's something Grantaire doesn't dare pry too far into.

Some things aren't meant for him—will never be meant for him.

Eventually Enjolras blinks and turns back to him. "Why didn't you want to come talk to Marius with me?"

Grantaire shrugs. "I'll speak to him another time. I didn't want to distract from what you were there for."

He didn't want to talk with Marius because talking with Marius will invariably lead to talking about Courfeyrac. And talking about Courfeyrac will lead Grantaire into a bottle, at least for a few hours.

Keeping himself away from situations that he knows will be beyond his endurance has been one of the things he's learned these last few months.

When he's certain Enjolras will be fine without him, when he's certain he isn't needed for at least a day, he will go talk to Marius, and they will reminisce. Until then, memories can wait until the living have been cared for.

They walk the rest of the way to their apartment in silence, and Grantaire follows patiently as Enjolras navigates the stairs. Enjolras will accept help, but he prefers to attempt things on his own, and Grantaire has learned to be patient.

When they are safely in their own home, Enjolras settles down on the bed and stretches his right leg out in front of him, leaning down and rubbing at his thigh muscles with slow, methodical movements.

Grantaire watches him. He wouldn't have, once. He tried to be somewhat discreet about his affection, once, but he's spent the last six months caring for Enjolras. He's _living_ for Enjolras, now, and he's fairly certain Enjolras knows that. Watching as Enjolras does for himself what Grantaire did for weeks while Enjolras slowly regained his strength shouldn't upset him too much.

Eventually Enjolras stops, straightening and fixing Grantaire with his too-direct gaze. "Are you certain that you want to do this?"

No. He's never certain of anything except for Enjolras. The last few months should have made that painfully clear, even if Enjolras had somehow managed to miss the signs before that. "I stay with you, for as long as you'll have me."

"Marius…" An expression of faint sorrow slides across Enjolras' face. "He said that he couldn't handle it again. He said that being on the barricades once was too much, and that he doesn't think he could handle the possibility of going through it again. If you feel the same way—"

"I slept through the majority of it." Not enough of it. He was awake for enough of it, and he was awake for the horror that followed, but Enjolras already knows his nightmares. "I stay with you."

Enjolras smiles, the smile that he's come to use most often since the barricades. It's an expression of joy, yes, but there's grief mixed in with the joy, grief and a terrible knowledge. "I am always glad to have you at my side."

It's not always true. Grantaire knows that. There are times—when his bitterness, his grief, his anger are overwhelming, when he's lost the battle to stay out of the bottle—that Enjolras wants nothing to do with him.

He doesn't blame the man. At those times, he wants nothing to do with himself, either.

But they've stayed together. They've gotten this far together. And Grantaire will never have the strength of will needed to walk away from Enjolras, not while he's still breathing. Smiling himself, Grantaire shrugs and looks away. "Besides, it's not the first time we've been through a battle."

"No." Enjolras inclines his head, his smile unchanged. "It's not."

The fighting in 1830 had tempered Enjolras, turning him from a young idealist to a fierce warrior prepared to do what was necessary to see the world remade. But this time… what's stronger than tempered steel? Were it possible to make a sword out of diamond, that is what Enjolras is now. Lovely, shining, sharp, unbreakable, taking in the light and refracting it in ever more beautiful patterns, and though Grantaire doesn't understand how he's managed to keep going he loves Enjolras all the more for doing it.

Enjolras' hand massages at his leg again. "I just want to make sure you're certain. Marius is right to fear that it might happen again. It will _need_ to happen again, because this revolution can't help but be bloody, and though I've learned how to do it better… I just want you to be certain."

"I'm certain." Grantaire settles, hesitantly, on the bed next to Enjolras. Slowly, giving Enjolras a chance to pull away if he wishes to, Grantaire lays his hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "Where you go, I will follow, so long as you permit it."

"Anywhere I go?" Enjolras' smiles loses some of the edge of sadness, though the sorrow doesn't fade entirely. Grantaire's not sure it will ever fade entirely. "Are you certain about that?"

"I would say yes, in a heartbeat, except you felt the need to ask that question." Grantaire studies Enjolras suspiciously before sighing. "Yes, I will follow you anywhere. Now, what hell are you planning on dragging me to?"

"We've been invited to Marius' wedding." Enjolras shrugs. "I told him that we'd attend."

"You… you actually agreed to attend, just like that?" Grantaire stares at Enjolras.

Enjolras shrugs once more. "Courfeyrac would have gone. Courfeyrac would have wanted us to go, as well. So… we'll go."

"We'll go." Shaking his head, Grantaire allows his hand to trail down until his fingers glide over Enjolras'. "It might be fun, even. After all that's happened, to see a wedding… will be a very normal and strange thing."

Enjolras' hand turns over, his fingers sliding between Grantaire's and holding tight. "I've a favor to ask of you."

"Anything." Grantaire runs his thumb over the fine bones of Enjolras' hand.

"At the wedding, there will be dancing." A faint blush slides up Enjolras' neck to touch his pale cheeks. "I'd… like to see if I can still manage it."

"You. Dancing." Grantaire manages to keep his mouth from hanging open, but he can't manage to form complete sentences. "At Marius' wedding."

"If I can, yes." The blush doesn't fade, but that _look_ he sometimes has, that look of seeing something beautiful and terrible that Grantaire can't possibly hope to process, touches his eyes. "Courfeyrac would have wanted me to try."

Grantaire nods, allowing a moment to pass while Enjolras returns fully to the world and Grantaire processes the request. "And you want _me_ to practice with you."

"Yes." Enjolras nods, grave. "If you know any steps. If you wouldn't mind."

"Enjolras." Grantaire can't help but smile. "At the moment, I would like nothing better."


End file.
